


Clockwork

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Crowley's pov, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need some time with him.  Just… don’t come in there.  No matter what you hear.”</p><p>It couldn’t be, I thought.  My own personal Torquemada, nay, Pontius Pilate-cum-Judas.  No.  Well, yes, he tortured, betrayed and washed his hands of me all at once, didn’t he?  It’s fitting.  I owe him nothing less after everything we’ve done to and for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Davechicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/gifts).



> Please consider this Revenge Feels because you made me cry last week.

Castiel’s fingers comb furrows into my facial hair. That old overgrown scruff, a beard really, to call it anything else at this point would mean redefining the workings of the clock, for a five o’clock shadow it certainly isn’t. It’s a different shadow all together.

“You used to take more pride in your personal grooming habits,” he whispers against my lips, chest still heaving from earlier exertions. 

“You used to be an honest and honorable angel,” I reply. And that’s enough, isn’t it? It won’t do to say to his face what I like to call it in my head. _The Scruff of Betrayal._ A little inside joke betwixt myself and I.

His thumb trails gently along the outline of my lips and I can feel the burning laser points of his eyes even though my own eyes are closed.

But do not be fooled by this moment’s apparently halcyon bliss. This isn’t the love story you might think it is.

This is Cas and Crowley.

I was alone, always alone, just the way the Winchesters wanted me to be. Stewing in my own juices. Basting, really, if the dungeon door could be considered its own lid. I heard the shuffling outside the gateway to my own personal Purgatory.

“I need some time with him. Just… don’t come in there. No matter what you hear.”

It couldn’t be, I thought. My own personal Torquemada, nay, Pontius Pilate-cum-Judas. No. Well, yes, he tortured, betrayed and washed his hands of me all at once, didn’t he? It’s fitting. I owe him nothing less after everything we’ve done to and for each other.

I remembered the times before the Storm, the times when he would come to me, lost puppy incarnate, and rub his own scruff up against my face, and leave pink burns from his vessel’s untamed stubble as he tried to kiss his own doubts away. The times when I held him and made promises that I fully intended to keep. Promises that I _have_ kept. With each kiss, I sealed another deal: I will help you, I will protect you, I will slay your enemies, I will (albeit grudgingly) do no harm to your friends.

I remembered everything. And then I had forced myself to forget.

I pretended to forget.

My own name is a growl on his lips as they press up against mine. His hands grab me by the lapels and lift me out of the chair, which promptly goes flying and shattering against the nearest wall. My angel is making a mess. But I’m still in the demon trap, still in chains, still collared, like the Winchesters’ little bitch ( _damn_ , but that Knight of Hell hussy knows how to rub it in!).

That was ten minutes ago. I do apologize for the confusion, but things can get somewhat murky when you’re basically left in sensory deprivation conditions for so long.

Was it really ten minutes? I’m not sure. They did not give me a clock in here. I measured the time it took him to have his way with me in the beats of his vessel’s heart. I could feel it pounding, pressed against my chest as he held me aloft.

I’m on the floor, on my back (it’s hardly a dignified position for a King, even a dethroned one). He’s gotten rid of all my clothes but he has left the shackles on. I can tell they amuse him even if he won’t express that concept out loud. It shows in the way he uses the padlock around my neck to yank my head down so he can kiss me. It’s less of a kiss than a battle being waged upon the field of my mouth. His tongue is a spear and his teeth are rows of sharp bayonets, but it’s his lips, oh his lips, those are the chained cannonballs, leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake.

It seems like a good time for a witty quip. About anything, really. It’s been so long since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Castiel. I distinctly remembered the way his eyes begged for the mercy he wouldn’t dare vocalize as I pulled that tablet out of his innards. 

He had his chance to kill me but he had “plans” for me.

I suppose this must have been what he meant by “plans.”

He is inside me and he’s fucking me like a Category 5 hurricane. My thighs are wrapped around his hips and his hands are pressing them even tighter around him, as if even the smallest modicum of air between our bodies would be a deadly insult to his celestial intent. I’m soaked in a conglomeration of both our sweats, inhaling the heady musk of our arousals. And I still haven’t said a word. It’s the damndest thing. 

My hands are still in cuffs, but there is enough slack for me to be able to arch my arms over his head and press them around his body. My warrior angel. I wonder, what has happened to you out there to make you this hungry. Were you all alone? Was there no one there to give you what you wanted, what you needed? Guidance, affirmation… love.

There is a hitching in his breath and something akin to a soft whinnying sound escaping his throat. Did he miss this too? Having someone to come home to? Was I ever anything to him but a ruthless means to an end?

I don’t think so, but for a few moments, I can close my eyes and pretend.

We _need_ our meatsuits for this. There is no other way for an angel and a demon to achieve this sort of communion. And with each twitch of the muscle underneath my fingertips I give thanks to the Giant Asshole in the Sky for making his vessel so beautifully suited to contain the angel within. But there is a part of me (and if you ever tell him I said this, I will deny it most vehemently) that wishes for just a moment to be able to touch the real angel, even if it meant that all that was left of my own soul would become forever incinerated by his light.

Apparently, this closeness is too much for him, because suddenly there is very rude _coitus interruptus_. I figure, it’s just like Pontius Judas here to get me all worked up and then fuck off _in media res_. But then, no. Something else is happening.

He flips me over and manages to somehow wrap that blasted chain around my thighs, binding them together, binding me tighter. And then he’s inside me again, pressed against my back, teeth leaving angry grooves in the flesh of my shoulder. I would upgrade the category of this hurricane, but I think I’ve run out of categories. Hurricane Castiel. I can feel each thrust, the drag of it, the slapping of his balls against my ass, the bruising clutch of his fingers along the ridges of my hips. His vessel’s heartbeat might have measured out minutes or lifetimes, I can no longer tell. The only thing I know is that I _need_ him to let me get off.

I’m in the Winchesters’ dungeon, in the middle of a demon trap, chained and padlocked to the floor, getting fucked by a renegade angel.

I don’t think there’s anywhere else I’d rather be.

“Cas… please…” I’m the first one to speak, to beg. I suppose that means he broke me, if that was what he intended to do. I panic because it feels like I can’t breathe, and then I remember I don’t need to.

His hand wraps tightly around my leaking, throbbing cock (he does have those magnificently long fingers), and tugs, giving me silent permission to fall apart. With him inside me, all around me, his scent mingled with my own, I come undone.

I feel happy.

I feel a little like I’m floating. Like maybe I’m the angel and he’s the demon. Who can tell anymore?

We are on the floor together, my back pressed against his chest, flushed and soaked. I turn into his arms (it’s difficult to move with these chains on, but I somehow manage). I lie there and let my lips trace the landscape of his neck as his breathing steadies. I kiss him again. I seal another deal with each kiss. Just like before. Here, this is my heart, you can have it. This one is for my soul, which I know you think I don’t have, but I do, and it aches, and here, take it. This one is my throne, you can have it too, with my crown. You would look good in a crown, I’ve always thought you would. What else have I got to give? My life? You can have that too. It hasn’t been worth a dime in quite a while.

His lips are a furnace in which I burn my dreams.

“We need your help,” he finally speaks.

Of course by “we” I know he means “Dean” but it’s nice of him to include himself in the equation since he’s bartering with his own body.

Well, what did you expect? I told you this wasn’t a love story. Did you think I had lied?

This is when his fingers trail down my face, through the forest of my facial hair and he says, “You used to take more pride in your personal grooming habits,” and I reply, “You used to be an honest and honorable angel.”

And I don’t know where we go from here.


End file.
